Rewrite
(this will make slightly more sense if you've read this and maybe this)
The air is of a somber, silent quality. Two sets of bleachers sit facing each other over roughly an American Football fields' worth of Rocky Mountain Scrub. Opera glasses and leaflets have been distrubted, and the masses scan the empty arena, waiting for the curtain to part on this absurd Theatre of Death.
In the home end zone is a well-ordered array of glitterati, relatives, politicians and other Persons of Consequence. Wall Streeters in freshly-pressed pistripes discuss personal finanace with short, swarthy dictators in cop glasses and more medals than the rest of their armies combined. At the Appropriate Moment, an order is barked, and the End Zone rises in unison.
A commotion passes through the assembly, followed by a hushed awe. The silence is broken by a crow, squalking away from its perch in the Colorado pines. It is followed by another. Then another. Soon woodland creatures are scattering by the busload. The noise rises until...
Virgins. Scores of them. All women and naked as the day uterine contractions thrust them forth into this world. They rush from the forest and onto the field. Behind dialated pupils, baffled neurotransmitters dance merrily with dark and unkown chemical paramours. Mescaline, peyote, LSD, ether, all matter of canniabinol, meth- and methylamphetamines and a dash of cocaine for good measure stir the orgy to greater and greater hights. The dancing rises and intensifies, the touching grows longer, tighter, more passionate, and sloppy, dissociated kissing begins.
As the crowed stares on, mesmerized by the hypnotic gyrations and their own base voyeurism, in the far end zone, one mirror-eyed dictator gives a nod to his bodyguard. A team of mercinaries, dirty and unshorn, streams onto the field. They surround the orgy, and, with heavily modified aftermarket Russian assault rifles, beam salvoes of hot lead into the cool, evening air. Panic seizes the virgins and the trip goes bad. They scatter madly, tripping over undergrowths real and imagined, persued by demons so insanely frightening that to even glance at them is to go mad. Many of these women do. Some are not found until decades later, mere shreds of humanity, wrapped sloppily in cloaks of moss, living off elderberries and wood grubs.
The dictator turns to another bodyguard, and a hum-vee sputters onto the field, with a cannon in tow. No, not some Disney-esq appartion squirting a plume of gentle white smoke, but a full on 270mm Howitzer, donated by the dictator himself for tonight's Festivities, and still stained with the dying screams of a hundred thousand insurgents. The VIPs don ear protection while the masses shift nervously in their seats. Some, fearing the worst, scamper over and trample their fellow man in a mad rush for cover.
The cannon is trained on a seeminly distant objective. Range is assessed and set carefully by an enlisted artilery man, who knows it's his balls if he blows this shot. He offers a word to his despot and cowers piously. The dictator nods, stares into the distance and salutes. The rest of the endzone follows in this jesture. Tense moments pass. Then, the dictator shouts.
Thousands of hands rush to ears miliseconds too late. A wave of bloody eardrums passes through the bleachers, abating only at the far end, where the nerve impulses of a few lucky souls are able beat the all-destroying sound wave. Above their agonzied, yet for all they know, silent screams, a shell cuts through the night. Not some hollow vessel bearing the ash of what was once a man, but a bright, brilliant tracer, oozing gobs of phosphorus and blotting out the waxing gibbous moon with its glare. It's trajectory is a perfect parabola, and its x-intercept, the overpacked parking lot, grows brighter and brighter as it descends.
At the far end of the fields, the despot pads his chubby hands together in delight, cracking a snaggletoothed smile he never shows, as it betrays his beginnings as an orhpan in the cane fields. The VIPs join in his ovation. In the distance, on a bald-topped Rocky Mountain bluff, a lone figure straddles a vintage Ducati. The again-visible moon shimmers on his hairless pate. He cackles madly before sliding on his BluBlockers and disapearing in the earthy spray of an defiant peelout.
The air is of a somber, silent quality. Two sets of bleachers sit facing each other over roughly an American Football fields' worth of Rocky Mountain Scrub. Opera glasses and leaflets have been distrubted, and the masses scan the empty arena, waiting for the curtain to part on this absurd Theatre of Death.
In the home end zone is a well-ordered array of glitterati, relatives, politicians and other Persons of Consequence. Wall Streeters in freshly-pressed pistripes discuss personal finanace with short, swarthy dictators in cop glasses and more medals than the rest of their armies combined. At the Appropriate Moment, an order is barked, and the End Zone rises in unison.
A commotion passes through the assembly, followed by a hushed awe. The silence is broken by a crow, squalking away from its perch in the Colorado pines. It is followed by another. Then another. Soon woodland creatures are scattering by the busload. The noise rises until...
Virgins. Scores of them. All women and naked as the day uterine contractions thrust them forth into this world. They rush from the forest and onto the field. Behind dialated pupils, baffled neurotransmitters dance merrily with dark and unkown chemical paramours. Mescaline, peyote, LSD, ether, all matter of canniabinol, meth- and methylamphetamines and a dash of cocaine for good measure stir the orgy to greater and greater hights. The dancing rises and intensifies, the touching grows longer, tighter, more passionate, and sloppy, dissociated kissing begins.
As the crowed stares on, mesmerized by the hypnotic gyrations and their own base voyeurism, in the far end zone, one mirror-eyed dictator gives a nod to his bodyguard. A team of mercinaries, dirty and unshorn, streams onto the field. They surround the orgy, and, with heavily modified aftermarket Russian assault rifles, beam salvoes of hot lead into the cool, evening air. Panic seizes the virgins and the trip goes bad. They scatter madly, tripping over undergrowths real and imagined, persued by demons so insanely frightening that to even glance at them is to go mad. Many of these women do. Some are not found until decades later, mere shreds of humanity, wrapped sloppily in cloaks of moss, living off elderberries and wood grubs.
The dictator turns to another bodyguard, and a hum-vee sputters onto the field, with a cannon in tow. No, not some Disney-esq appartion squirting a plume of gentle white smoke, but a full on 270mm Howitzer, donated by the dictator himself for tonight's Festivities, and still stained with the dying screams of a hundred thousand insurgents. The VIPs don ear protection while the masses shift nervously in their seats. Some, fearing the worst, scamper over and trample their fellow man in a mad rush for cover.
The cannon is trained on a seeminly distant objective. Range is assessed and set carefully by an enlisted artilery man, who knows it's his balls if he blows this shot. He offers a word to his despot and cowers piously. The dictator nods, stares into the distance and salutes. The rest of the endzone follows in this jesture. Tense moments pass. Then, the dictator shouts.
Thousands of hands rush to ears miliseconds too late. A wave of bloody eardrums passes through the bleachers, abating only at the far end, where the nerve impulses of a few lucky souls are able beat the all-destroying sound wave. Above their agonzied, yet for all they know, silent screams, a shell cuts through the night. Not some hollow vessel bearing the ash of what was once a man, but a bright, brilliant tracer, oozing gobs of phosphorus and blotting out the waxing gibbous moon with its glare. It's trajectory is a perfect parabola, and its x-intercept, the overpacked parking lot, grows brighter and brighter as it descends.
At the far end of the fields, the despot pads his chubby hands together in delight, cracking a snaggletoothed smile he never shows, as it betrays his beginnings as an orhpan in the cane fields. The VIPs join in his ovation. In the distance, on a bald-topped Rocky Mountain bluff, a lone figure straddles a vintage Ducati. The again-visible moon shimmers on his hairless pate. He cackles madly before sliding on his BluBlockers and disapearing in the earthy spray of an defiant peelout.
posted by Cosmo at 1:20 PM
1 Comments:
Well put, Cosmo.
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